Progress Poem by Patti Masterman

The Indian ancestor
Of the original land run
Never knew the truth
Of that grey shadow
Out on the oceans horizon
At first, it was only a tiny dot
Hidden by each waves rising
Revealed by each waves descending
He could never have realized
It was only the first ripple
Of a living, reproducing cyclone
Which would soon over-run, colonize,
Take possession of, and hoard
The very land which
The Indian and his forbears
Held as hallowed
The soil cradling
The bones of their dead,
Remaining steadfast under the tender feet
Of their babies learning to walk,
Feeding and clothing them
And their lineage, since time forgotten
The land that would soon become cheap coinage
For barter and trade
The newcomers, so clever and cunning
The Indian never had a chance to realize
What a calamity befell him that day
And his livelihood and heritage
When that large, looming shadow
Overtook his own tiny one.